


better cheated to the last

by Damkianna



Category: The Sting (1973)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Rescue, Trust Issues, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-17 08:36:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16971318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: He probably should have known right then, the moment he saw them. Down the street some distance, crowding around the mouth of a narrow little alley. The way they were standing said trouble, sure enough: looming, tense shoulders and jutted-out chins, brief sharp movements of their hands and arms.He should have known trouble meant Johnny.But he didn't think of it, didn't realize. He saw there was somebody cornered, getting shoved around a little—and it wasn't till one of them finally threw a punch, knocked that somebody's hat off and gave Henry a nice clear view of a flash of wheat-gold hair, that Henry felt his breath hitch and fumbled his way into motion.





	better cheated to the last

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueteak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueteak/gifts).



> I couldn't resist expanding on the idea of Henry roughing Johnny up as part of a cover and then looking after him, post-canon—I just hope you like this, blueteak, and that you've had a wonderful Yuletide! :D
> 
> Title from the poem "[Faith](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52044/faith-56d23035d8a78)" by Frances Anne Kemble.

 

 

They'd split up on the way out of Chicago.

Just good sense. Easier to get out quickly, quietly, if you only had to worry about yourself; easier to arrange transportation, to pay off whoever needed paying or stow away, whatever it was you had to do, if you were one man alone instead of two.

They'd talked it all through—hadn't taken more than a minute or two, because even Johnny had been able to grasp the wisdom in it. And then he'd looked at Henry, still scratching idly at the fake blood drying on his chin, and said, "Well. See you in St. Louis?"

It had only occurred to Henry right then, hearing it, that Johnny hadn't had to say it. That he might as easily have told Henry, _Well, so long, then_ instead.

But he hadn't. And Henry had been startled, that day, to feel something he hadn't known was knotted tight in his chest loosen gratefully in relief.

 

 

Didn't startle him anymore, though.

He'd had time to think about it plenty, all the way to St. Louis. He had a grip on it now, mostly.

Truth was, it had been hard to ignore. Crammed into one end of a loaded train car coming out of Indianapolis, Henry had had more than enough time to think about it. And more than enough time to realize just how quick he'd gotten used to Johnny. After being alone a while, he hadn't much wanted to get stuck looking after some kid who'd gotten himself in trouble; but he'd picked Johnny up like a bad habit anyhow, and like all the worst bad habits, it was one he couldn't seem to shake. He'd kept turning to catch Johnny's eye, to share a joke or give Johnny a look or just draw Johnny's attention someplace—and it had been a surprise, a stupid helpless surprise, every single time he remembered all over again that Johnny wasn't there.

Johnny wasn't there, and wouldn't be till Henry got to St. Louis.

It was funny, how short a trip it was if you made an effort. And how long it felt anyway, if you still spent the whole thing hopelessly wishing it was shorter.

Henry snorted at himself, leaned back against the wall outside the train station and tipped the front of his hat a little lower. He'd been in this game more than long enough to know better. He _did_ know better.

He wasn't going to be stupid about this. He couldn't afford to, couldn't—couldn't let Johnny take up any more space in his head than he already did. So they were meeting in St. Louis, sure. That didn't mean anything, and Henry wasn't going to treat it like it did, and if it turned out Johnny would rather go his own way, that was fine. It had to be. They'd helped each other, and helped themselves by it on the way. That didn't make them partners, and treating it like it did would be even stupider than—than anything else that might have crossed his mind, all that long lonely train ride. Relying on anybody but yourself when it counted was nothing but the surest way to get conned.

So he wasn't going to count on Johnny, and he wasn't going to make Johnny count on him. He wasn't going to need anything from Johnny he couldn't do without, and he wasn't going to ask for anything it wasn't fair to expect Johnny to be willing to give.

And if Henry had a tendency toward thinking too much about the color of Johnny's eyes, well, he would just keep it to himself.

He had it all straight, all right. He knew the score. It was just most of him wasn't listening. Even standing here waiting, he felt wire-taut with anticipation. Thinking any minute Johnny could come around the corner, spot Henry standing there and grin that quick bright grin of his—or hustle down the steps out of the train station, maybe, bump into Henry and turn to apologize and only then realize it was Henry.

For all he knew, he reminded himself, Johnny wouldn't show till tomorrow, or Friday, or next week. For all he knew, Johnny wouldn't show at all. But the restless yearning thing in his chest wasn't going to listen—would be happy enough to stand here all day, like some poor old dog too loyal to die, waiting to be thrown a dry bone.

He shifted his weight a little and made himself look up the street and down it, easy, casual, as if he had nothing better to do.

And he probably should have known right then, the moment he saw them. Down the street some distance, crowding around the mouth of a narrow little alley. The way they were standing said trouble, sure enough: looming, tense shoulders and jutted-out chins, brief sharp movements of their hands and arms.

He should have known trouble meant Johnny.

But he didn't think of it, didn't realize. He saw there was somebody cornered, getting shoved around a little—and it wasn't till one of them finally threw a punch, knocked that somebody's hat off and gave Henry a nice clear view of a flash of wheat-gold hair, that Henry felt his breath hitch and fumbled his way into motion.

He sized them up as he crossed the street. Half a dozen, and all of them angry; whatever stupid game Johnny had tried to pull on one or two of them, the others had been watching, maybe, and were feeling just as soundly fooled and just as sore about it for having missed the trick.

And they wouldn't take it kindly if Henry tried to talk them out of it. If he wasn't careful, he'd end up right there on the ground next to Johnny.

So when he hurried up with a shout and pushed them aside, grabbed for Johnny's shirt-collar and hauled Johnny to his feet again, he didn't hesitate a second. He gave Johnny one sharp punishing shake, and he said loudly, "Told you one of these days I'd catch up to you, Ed, you son of a bitch," and then he popped Johnny one across the jaw, as hard as he could bear.

Johnny's head snapped sideways, and he stumbled and almost fell again—but he'd recognized Henry, he must have, because when he caught himself and straightened up again he had his hands held out, pleading. "Joe, you—I didn't know you were in St. Louis—"

"I bet you didn't," Henry snapped, "or you'd never have shown your face."

"Aw, c'mon, Joe," Johnny said, with a whine in it now like he really was scared. "C'mon, can't we talk about this?"

"What's to talk about?" Henry sneered, and shoved Johnny again. "I see you've been busy making friends—how much did he rip you off for, huh?"

This last was directed at the man who'd punched Johnny first; he'd been standing there, him and his pals, startled silent by Henry's sudden intercession and by this unexpected drama playing out in front of them. He shifted his weight and sniffed, met Henry's confiding look and said, "Near forty dollars."

"Got a solid hundred off me," Henry said, in the amiable, rueful tones of the likewise aggrieved. "Pulled a fast one on me in Pittsburgh and took off. Spent almost a month trying to track him down—"

"Now, Joe," Johnny wheedled, "be reasonable, pal," and Henry rounded on him quick and hit him again.

He tried to be careful about it—kept his fist open a bit, softened the impact as well as he could. "Oh, I'm done being reasonable," he said. "I've been waiting a long time for this," and he took a moment to roll up his sleeves; to give Johnny a chance to catch up, before he had to lay into Johnny for real.

Except Johnny wasn't stupid. Johnny'd caught up and then some. He met Henry's eyes, and yeah, he knew all right. These guys wanted a little blood, wouldn't leave off until they'd gotten some—and better that it be Henry drawing it than the six of them.

Because Henry would be smart about it. Henry would be smart about it, and he wouldn't do any more damage than he had to.

He was as quick about it as he could manage. He split Johnny's lip right off—because that was a good sort of wound if you had to have one, bloody and showy and serious-looking, without much actual risk in it. Caught one of Johnny's teeth with a knuckle, and Henry was almost grateful for the sharp bright sting; as if it were apology, recompense, that Johnny should make him bleed right back.

He blacked one of Johnny's eyes, and Johnny tried to hit back but Henry caught his arm and socked him one in the gut, too, so he curled over himself wheezing. And then Henry shoved him back against the alley wall and felt around inside his jacket, drove a hand roughly into Johnny's inside pocket and came out with a crumpled wad of bills.

"And there's your forty," he told the man, with a shake of his head. He reached over to clap his new friend on the shoulder, and to tuck those forty dollars courteously and safely into the man's pocket. "Oh, quit your whining, Ed," he added, and grabbed a pitifully blubbering Johnny by the back of the neck, shook him a little and maneuvered him out into the street. "I'll see you put away this time if I have to walk you all the way into the police commissioner's arms myself," and he dragged Johnny off at a steady march.

The guys Johnny'd cheated were all still standing there, looking at Henry and then at each other. Some of them didn't look much pleased, mouths flat, a hint of thunderclouds still lurking around their brows. But the fellow who'd landed his forty dollars back was happy enough, and none of them were likely to press the issue without him leading the charge.

So they let Henry go, and Johnny with him. And once Henry and Johnny had rounded the corner of the train station together and were out of their view, Henry could take a second to get a real look at the pair of tickets their forty-dollar man had had in his pocket. Going to Atlanta just this afternoon, in a private compartment.

"Well, aren't we lucky," Henry murmured, and hustled Johnny right on into the station.

 

 

It was no wonder Forty-Dollar Man had been hanging around by the train station; there was only an hour or two left to go before the train to Atlanta arrived.

So Henry and Johnny waited half an hour, and then caught one going to Dallas instead. People tried to catch themselves a free ride all the time—but what kind of con was it, to buy some full-price tickets and then get on the wrong train? It was a much easier sell and a lot less trouble, in Henry's experience, to convince somebody you were stupid than to convince somebody you were innocent.

He kept Johnny close on the platform. Johnny'd already swabbed the worst of the blood off his lip with his sleeve, and was keeping the split sucked into his mouth, concealed; his hat was still back there in the street somewhere, so Henry put his own on Johnny's head instead, tilted down all jaunty over that slowly swelling eye.

They couldn't hang around here long enough for Henry to really take a look at him. But Henry stayed beside Johnny, let Johnny lean into him a little, and when the train pulled up he kept a hand on Johnny's back. Just to steady him, was all. Just so he wouldn't falter or stumble, or do anything else that would make anybody look at them twice.

The tickets had a compartment number, and this wasn't Forty-Dollar Man's train to Atlanta but it seemed to be numbered about the same. That was good, Henry thought; it would make the discovery of their "mistake" seem like an even more legitimate surprise.

And then he got Johnny inside and closed the compartment door behind them with a rattle, and wasn't thinking anymore. He helped Johnny ease down onto one of the seats, which Johnny did with only a muffled noise of complaint, and then took his own hat off Johnny's head and found himself saying, "Well, for a man who's been walloped as often as you, you sure bruise easy."

Because now he could see it better, and Johnny's eye—Johnny's eye was already swelling up, ugly color starting to show through the thin skin around it.

"Oh, and how would you know how often I've been walloped?" Johnny murmured, reaching up like a fool to touch it and then grimacing.

"Call it an educated guess," Henry said, and then reached out and pushed Johnny's jacket off his shoulders.

"What—oh, don't flatter yourself," Johnny said with a laugh. "You didn't hit me that hard, Henry. I'm all right. Honest."

Henry looked away, and knew he should have laughed right back but didn't. "Humor me," he said, quiet; and there was silence for a moment and then he heard the shuffle of cloth, Johnny shrugging the rest of the way out of the jacket, and then—

Then there was the muffled little pop of a button pushed through a buttonhole.

Henry bit the tip of his tongue and shucked his own jacket, going through the pockets till he came up with a handkerchief and his flask. He'd have liked to have some water, too, and ice would have been better still. But he could clean Johnny up a little, at least.

He found he didn't want to turn around again, didn't want to look; but that only made it more important to prove he could. So he did, and didn't pause or hesitate, didn't give himself enough room to swallow hard. He just leaned in over Johnny, sitting there with his shirt open and his eyes fixed right on Henry, and set his hand to Johnny's ribs right where he had another bruise coming up.

And another on the other side, Henry was startled to see. He didn't think he had—

"That one wasn't you," Johnny said, and Henry met his eyes quick and then felt it for the mistake it was and looked away again. "One of them hit me while you were still crossing the street. Remember? That's all it is. I'm fine."

He drew a deep breath in, let it out, with Henry's hand still against him—demonstrative, showing Henry how he wasn't made to wince by it, that he hadn't broken anything. His rib moved just fine under the heel of Henry's hand, Henry had to admit.

And then he shifted a little. Just getting himself comfortable where he was sitting, that was all, but the muscles in his chest tightened under Henry's fingertips, warm and alive, and Henry lifted his hand away quick and bit his tongue again, harder.

"Okay," he said aloud, even, and there was nothing for it but to move on—to reach out for Johnny's chin, and tip his face up.

The prickle against Henry's knuckles said Johnny hadn't shaved in at least a day. Henry gave himself a long clear look at Johnny's busted lip, and then let go and took up the handkerchief, set it against the mouth of the flask and tipped. He felt aware of himself, of every motion he made, the same way he did when he was in the middle of a con; as if there were something he had to make sure to hide, alone in a train compartment with Johnny. And there was, he knew. But naming it wouldn't help. If he could only pull this off, he wouldn't need to, anyway—wouldn't even need to look at it too close, could just leave it set there in a quiet dark corner and not touch it ever again.

So he held Johnny's chin steady with one hand, and pressed the wet bit of the handkerchief to Johnny's bloodied lip with the other. Listened to the hitch of Johnny's breath at the sting of it, and felt Johnny watching him, Johnny's mouth under his fingers, and didn't flinch; didn't twitch. Didn't let one single goddamn tell show through.

But Johnny said, "Henry," anyway, real low and careful, and caught Henry by the wrist.

"Johnny," Henry said, level.

"Oh, quit it," Johnny said. "I'll live. I got myself in a load of trouble, and you got me out. You didn't hurt me. All right?" He stopped, and studied Henry for a minute. "You didn't hurt me. Wouldn't have let you hit me if I thought you were going to."

Henry shut his eyes. As if that helped any. As if it was better, knowing Johnny _trusted_ him—

They'd helped each other, and helped themselves by it. That was all right. But it didn't make them partners. It didn't mean they could depend on each other. How stupid was Johnny anyhow, to be acting like it did?

But then he didn't know, Henry thought distantly. He didn't know how much Henry thought about his eyes.

Henry had been alone for a while, hiding out in Chicago. Nobody had relied on him then for much of anything. It hadn't mattered if he couldn't fix the carousel. It hadn't mattered if he got so drunk he couldn't stand up, and it hadn't mattered that he was broke, and it hadn't mattered if he couldn't be counted on.

He still knew how to look trustworthy, when he needed to. But he didn't—he didn't know how to _be_ it.

"You planning to hurt me, Henry?" Johnny said quietly.

Henry tightened his hand around the handkerchief and didn't open his eyes, didn't look. He was—he should stop touching Johnny's face. He ought to stop touching Johnny's face.

Except Johnny still had him by the wrist, and wasn't letting go.

"You thinking you might want to do something to me I won't forgive?"

"Johnny," Henry said, and was surprised it had managed to come out at all, the way his throat had closed up on him, the way his tense jaw was aching.

"Because I'll tell you for free there isn't any such thing," Johnny said, and then he caught Henry by the back of the neck and pulled him down and kissed him.

It was clumsy. Bloody, too, a little; because that split in Johnny's lips opened right back up against Henry's mouth, and he could taste it when he pressed his tongue against it. Johnny made a small greedy sound, then, and tugged Henry closer between his parted thighs till Henry's knees hit the edge of the seat.

And Henry squeezed his eyes shut tighter, and kissed back harder still, until at last the dim sense that he couldn't quite breathe got too strong to ignore.

He broke away and eased off a little, licking absently along his lip where Johnny's blood was on it.

And Johnny watched him do it, and then grinned up at him and said, "Heck, I let you shoot me in the back." He paused a minute, leaning back into the seat, letting the sides of his open shirt fall even further open; and then he looked up at Henry and tilted his head, and added more quietly, "I can't think of much I wouldn't let you do, Henry."

Henry swallowed hard. "Yeah?" he said, after a moment, quiet, hoarser than he meant to.

"Yeah," Johnny said, not grinning anymore, those blue blue eyes steady on Henry's face.

Easy to believe eyes like that, Henry thought. Easy to want to. Forty-Dollar Man had, after all.

But Henry wasn't Forty-Dollar Man, and—and Johnny, maybe, was his partner.

"Okay," Henry said aloud. "Have it your way, then," and he leaned in and kissed Johnny again.

 

 


End file.
